


The Jacobite and The Redcoat

by GoodyearTheShippyCat



Category: Starfighter (Comic)
Genre: Accents, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Blushing, British Military, By Way of Scottish Bothy, Canadian Shack, Crack, Cuddling & Snuggling, Cultural Differences, Enemies to Lovers, Enthusiastic Consent, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Gaelic Language, Grinding, Hand Jobs, Huddling For Warmth, Kilts, M/M, Making Out, Meet-Cute, Military, More Frottage for Good Measure, Post-Coital Cuddling, Scotland, Scottish Gaelic (a little bit), Sharing Body Heat, Sheep, So Many Sheep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:09:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25943371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoodyearTheShippyCat/pseuds/GoodyearTheShippyCat
Summary: A high-strung young English cavalry officer is stationed in the more southerly Highlands, where he meets a Jacobite who alters his perspective of the local people forever.
Relationships: Ethos/Phobos (Starfighter)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 5
Collections: Starfighter Summer Challenge





	The Jacobite and The Redcoat

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Thistle and The Rose](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13481670) by [GoodyearTheShippyCat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoodyearTheShippyCat/pseuds/GoodyearTheShippyCat). 



> Once upon a time, I joked about writing a fic based on my infamous Scottish AU, The Thistle and The Rose a.k.a. Space Gays in Kilts: The Fic, but done in a historical time period. Well, it finally happened thanks to the Starfighter Summer Theme Week, the first daily theme of which this year is “Historical AU”! 
> 
> Don’t expect any Battle of Culloden, though. This fic is set approximately two decades earlier; shortly after the third Jacobite rising, rather than just prior to the most famous one in 1745. Don’t expect any high degree of historical accuracy beyond that, either… 
> 
> Finally, a disclaimer: Historical!Jules’ opinions on Scots (the language, or the people in general, as well) do not reflect those of the author. 
> 
> Name reference:  
> Jules = Phobos  
> Aodhàn = Ethos  
> Marcas = Praxis

“Bloody lost in this godforsaken bloody wilderness again! Bloody hell!”

As he slowed his horse to a walk and peered at the trees all around him, Jules cursed his luck for what must have been the hundredth time since arriving in Scotland. It should have been easy enough to get back from the meeting with Sir Duncan Campbell of Lochnell, but the newly constructed roads seemed to look different heading in one direction than they did coming from another.

_Must have taken a wrong turn somewhere,_ he thought to himself, _I really do need to speak with someone about erecting additional signage as we continue with the expansion efforts._

The only certain thing was that he _wasn’t_ on his way back to camp right now. He should have seen something familiar by this point, given how long he’d been riding. Coaxing his mount around, he brought her up to a trot and began backtracking along the winding road through the forest.

_I should never have accepted this commission. I should have stayed an Officer Cadet somewhere near the Borders._ Jules glanced around the foreboding trees on all sides, the sky grey above them. _Father was wrong! Coming up to this uncivilized wasteland to make nice with the few clans who have sworn fealty to the Crown isn’t going to earn me_ any _prestige. There’s nobody important enough up here to notice! Better to have a lower rank and remain in England._

When he had joined the British Army, it hadn’t been with dreams of spending his days in the isolated, mountainous Scottish countryside, directing the construction of new roadways up to the heart of the Highlands. He’d been but a boy when the Kingdom of Great Britain had formed, not truly old enough to recognize the significance of the union at the time. It hadn’t inspired any particular desire to visit the more northern reaches of civilization— _if it can even be called that_ —like some of his superiors in the forces seemed to have. He’d joined up more for how distinguished he looked in uniform, if he was being honest. Drawing a salary for riding around and doing drills in a handsome red coat and shiny leather boots had sounded quite grand to him when he entered his officer training.

His boots weren’t shiny now, and hadn’t been since he’d taken the posting here. They were eternally spattered in mud from where the infantrymen spent their days mucking about to make inroads into the Highlands. Commanding a cavalry troop in charge of organizing the various platoons of British soldiers doing road work and liaising with the newly re-formed Independent Highland Companies was not how he’d prefer to be spending his time.

_Lord what I wouldn’t give to be a clerk or something back home, now,_ he lamented in his own head, _Or anywhere but these lawless wastelands filled with brutes and afflicted by poverty and deprivation. What I wouldn’t trade for some good claret in a quiet study!_

“BAAAAAAAAHH!”

The sudden, loud noise startled both him and his horse. Spooked, she reared, then bucked as she turned to run in the opposite direction, throwing Jules. Too absorbed in his own self-pity, he hadn’t been paying any attention to the road in front of them or his handle on his mount.

_Sploosh._ The sound of his hard landing in the mud of the road was undignified, and his reaction even more so.

“You’re supposed to be a warhorse you stupid beast!” he yelled after the retreating animal—who was already galloping out of sight—and slapped one palm down into the mud, furious. It splattered even more of the grey-brown sludge on him. _Not that a few drops matters to the ocean._ He was absolutely coated in the stuff. The newly built dirt roads always turned to soup after a rainstorm, and it rained a lot.

“Not the least phased by a flintlock musket fired at close range, but _one_ sheep is terrifying enough to send you running,” he muttered to himself while shaking off some of the excess muck which was clinging to his gloves. “Don’t let the clans know that; they’ll start riding their flocks into battle…”

_In all fairness_ , he thought to himself, suddenly face-to-face with one of the creatures, _They are a little more than unsettling._

The sheep which had spooked his horse had also bolted, but now quite a few more were wandering over from where the road met a crossroad, or path really, through a less-densely forested area. One had stopped directly in front of him and was staring him down.

_Sheep don’t eat people, they eat grass. Everything will be fine._

Dozens of the animals had suddenly formed an undulating wave in front of and around him, their white, fluffy coats making it seem like he was floating in the clouds. Their incessant bleating like the war cries of the barbarians who owned them.

_I never expected to die this way. Starved, hypothermic, and half-trampled by grazing animals, crawling lost and broken through the woods and across the moors. I really should have gone to the New World to work in imports and exports like my brother. Even settling down over there would be preferable to this._

“Beannachd Dia duit, a duine!”

The sound of human speech startled Jules and he nearly slipped while attempting to get to his feet. He swore but managed not to fall in again. A horrid sucking sound accompanied him separating himself from the quicksand-like muck.

“I don’t speak Gaelic, you dirty savage!” he said, turning to see the source of his misfortune. A man wearing a plaid and leading his own horse by the reins

“Seems tae mysel’ tha’ yer the one who’s got all clarty!” replied the speaker, switching to the bastardized attempt at the King’s English that some people in the larger cities south of here had the audacity to declare was a separate language.

_Scots, bah!_

“Well I wouldn’t be, had your infernal sheep not spooked my horse!”

Being able to understand him did make Jules feel slightly more comfortable. It didn’t stop him worrying that the brute’s sincere-looking smile was only reflecting genuine joy at the prospect of killing an English soldier and feeding him to his sheep, though.

“Aye, mah apologies,” added the Highlander, seeming genuine about that, too, much to Jules’ surprise.

Having brushed as much mud off his uniform as he could, Jules took a proper look at the other man. He was young—likely of a similar age to Jules himself—and significantly finer looking than most of the hard-living nearby populace. His cheeks were round and rosy, not hollow or badly marked by pox and other disease like so many of his countrymen. His hair not matted with grease and filth, but rather fluffy, with gentle curls that resembled the woolly pelts of his flock.

“Where ye be gaein’ ta, in such haste?”

“I was trying to return to the army camp near here, working on the road north,” Jules sighed, “Though I appear to have become turned around. I don’t suppose you would be able to point me in the correct direction?”

“Aye, Ah could dae tha’. Though… dinnae ye ken it’s dangerous tae be travellin’ alone ‘round ‘ere?” the man spoke kindly, but his tone had grown sombre. “Especially fer a soldier o’ the Crown who cannae hold their tongue.”

“Pfft! Half the people up here can’t understand a word I say,” scoffed Jules. “Just my bad luck that you happened to cross paths with me.”

“Great fortune’s mair like it. Still a fair chance o’ bein’ killed by a less friendly clansman, an’ nae law out ‘ere tae persecute yer murderer.”

Jules swallowed. _He’s not threatening me, right?_

“Ah’m takin’ mah sheep tae the next pasture o’er, but the road yer lookin’ fer isnae far frae it. Ah can show ye the way, if it please ye.”

Jules looked up the road he’d been doubling back along, in the direction of his lost mare. He felt a hot rush of shame and was nearly overcome with sudden hopelessness at the entire situation.

“I need to find my horse first. She’s property of the British Army, after all. It wouldn’t do to let a valuable, trained warhorse be captured by… bandits.”

“O aye,” said the man, “Plenty o’ folk who’d steal a good horse up ‘ere. Cannae beat a fast horse tae drive a spreaigh.”

The prickle of tears just starting at the corners of his eyes made Jules want to scream. _Stupid, stupid. How could I let this happen?_

“Ah’ll help ye find ‘er,” the man’s response interrupted Jules’ train of thought. “She cannae be far. Gie me a moment tae deal wi’ the wee beasties.”

He whistled sharply and gave some command in Gaelic. Two dogs Jules hadn’t noticed in the commotion of his initial fall burst into action, rounding up the sheep and redirecting them. After a few minutes the entire flock was heading along the road. The shepherd himself motioned for Jules to follow and strode to the front. As they walked, he spoke again.

“Ah’m called Aodhàn. We dinnae hae a proper introduction yet.”

“My name is Jules. But that’s Cornet Julian Charles Augustus Waverley, Esquire, to you, peasant.” He may have been covered practically head to toe in mud, but he’d be damned if he was going to give up his pride and dignity as an officer of His Majesty’s Armed Forces that easily.

Aodhàn laughed—a warm, resonant sound that reminded Jules of the strings section in an orchestra.

“Peasant, hah! I’m milk brother tae the Chief’s firstborn son, Marcas, ye ken? Mah mother raised the both o’ us together frae when we were bairns. An’ I gaed tae sit in on lessons wi’ the tutor,” he said, eyes sparkling with mirth. “How dae ye think Ah learned tae speak like th’ English?”

Jules’ eyes boggled at the assertion.

“I have yet to meet a single Englishman who speaks even remotely like you,” he said with disdain, “I suspect they’d be thrown out of the country if they did.”

That got another laugh. “Well, Ah suppose ye’d nae recognize th’ authority o’ a Clan Chief, anyhae.”

Jules was saved from placing his foot firmly in his mouth by the sight before them. A regal-looking dapple grey emerged from the trees, mouthing at the tufts of grass sprouting up beside the muddy road.

“Equinox! There you are!” he said, walking slowly towards the horse. “Good girl, there there. It’s all going to be fine.”

“She’s quite a beauty, aye. Now we can ride.”

Both on horseback, they headed in the direction they’d come from, soon passing the site of their fateful meeting. _If I never see this stretch of road again, it will be too soon,_ thought Jules, rankled by having to backtrack for the second time that afternoon. _Could this day get any worse?_

It could, as it turned out.

The rain began to fall again before the mud on his uniform had even had a chance to dry. The thick cloth, normally so warm and resistant to the elements, was waterlogged and getting heavy. He shivered.

“Hmmm, tha’ll nae keep ye warm,” the shepherd riding beside him sounded concerned.

“I’m sure it will be fine. It never rains for very long, anyway.”

_Last words of foolish soldier predict his own demise,_ thought Jules ruefully when the skies opened up a short time later.

“There’s a bothy at the pasture,” said Aodhàn. “We can hae a rest an’ get warmed up afore continuin’ along the road tae where it meets yer route.”

“I-it’s f-f-f- fine!” Jules said, teeth giving him away.

“Yer chitterin’! Dinnae want ye tae freeze. Ah’ll get a fire roarin’ when we arrive.”

_A fire does sound nice_.

As they rode the remaining distance, Jules watched Aodhàn weave away from the path at various points to steer a wayward lamb back into the fold before rejoining him. His riding was artful, and his posture excellent. Although he was driving sheep, his bearing also spoke to a greater degree of self-respect, and carried a certain stateliness.

_Perhaps there’s some truth to his claim of being close to the ruling class in the ancient, backwards social structure that still holds sway in these parts_ , Jules thought. The equivalent of a lower-ranking gentleman, if Jules had to make a guess. _What was that he said about being the ‘milk brother’ to the Chief’s son? Does that make him the relation of a minor lord?_ It was true that the fact that he spoke English—or the degenerate dialect spoken here, at any rate—was already marker enough of some standing beyond the peasantry.

The little hut by the sheep field looked like it had been made out of the mud of the surrounding land. Inside the air was stale and a bit musty, but true to Aodhàn’s word there was a fireplace, and even some stored wood which remained dry. Jules watched as the Highlander bustled around the small space, getting a fire started. Once it had come to life and was feasting hungrily on one of the larger logs, the man’s attention fell on him. 

“Ye should get outta those dreich clothes.”

Jules was not going to argue with a good idea. He began stripping out of the worst of the soaked layers, which Aodhàn took from him and began to hang closer to the fire. As he lost more clothing, Jules noticed that the shepherd was no longer looking directly at him. Rather, he was averting his eyes, allowing Jules to preserve his modesty. In the flickering light, Jules could see a flush of pink over the other man’s cheeks. 

_Oh ho ho, he's a shy one!_ Despite his continued shivering, Jules did feel a resurgence of energy at this discovery. “T- thank you,” he said, mostly managing not to chatter his teeth through the words. “I c- could hardly ask for more from one of your Chiefs himself.” 

“Ach, it’s nae great hardship.”

_I can think of a great_ hardship _I’d like to see you handle,_ Jules couldn’t help thinking. 

“Still, I appreciate y- your assistance and hospitality,” he said instead, setting one hand on the Highlander’s bicep. _Hmmm, I never realized that herding sheep was so good for the physical constitution._

“Uh, well, mah pleasure,” said Aodhàn with his blush, visible even in profile, growing redder than the flames of the fire itself. “Take a seat o’er there.”

Jules sat on the bound straw seating or cot, or whatever it was in the corner. On it was a threadbare blanket, which he gratefully wrapped around his shoulders. It wasn’t long enough to also cover his now-bare legs, unfortunately. The small mud hut had not yet fully warmed, and a draft coming in around the edges of the rough-hewn door made him shiver more intensely. Being down to his shirt sleeves and undergarments may have left him closer to dry, but the fine linens weren’t very warm, and the blanket wasn’t doing a whole lot more to help. 

“Still a wee bit chilled?” asked Aodhàn, risking a glance in his direction. “‘ere, wrap that ‘round yer legs.”

Jules could only stare at him, hoping to convey what an idiotic suggestion that sounded like. _I need to warm my body, my damn legs can wait a while. It’s not like his are even that much more covered!_ He didn’t move to follow the other man’s direction. 

Aodhàn wasn’t paying attention to the glaring, though. Jules watched as he unclasped the top portion of his plaid again. The jacket he wore beneath looked quite dry apart from where the ends of his sleeves had emerged from the wool shell to hold onto his horse’s reins out in the downpour. He unfurled and shook out the fabric, most of the remaining raindrops which had been resting on its surface falling to the dirt ground of the hut. Jules finally realized the reason for the man’s suggestion as Aodhàn sat down next to him. 

“Are ye gunnae be sittin’ there chitterin’ an’ stubborn or dae ye want tae be warm?”

Jules hurried to follow directions by pushing the thin, holey blanket down to his lower half. When thicker wool already warmed by body heat draped over his shoulders, it made him shiver with appreciation. He hoped the other man couldn’t tell the difference between the two types of shivers. 

The fabric felt vaguely damp, as if the rain had almost gotten through to the inside, but not quite. It was still comfortable and very much appreciated. The shepherd was practically radiating warmth from where he sat right next to Jules, both of them wrapped in the upper half of his tartan woven garment. They weren’t even touching—though Jules wouldn’t even need to shift a full inch to change that—and yet his entire right side felt warmer than he had since arriving in the blasted, wet, drafty northern half of Scotland. His left side was the one nearer the fire, and it still felt positively chilled in comparison. He fought the urge to lean into the man’s side for more warmth still.

He was already confused and taken aback by this show of friendliness and kindness. The Highlanders were supposed to be violent and unpredictable. And to hate the English, especially military men, with every fibre of their being. Yet here one was, sharing not only shelter with him, but his own clothing. 

_And now, apparently, his liquor, too_ , thought Jules as Aodhàn fetched a flask from the pocket of his coat and offered it to him.

“‘Tae help ye warm up.”

Jules gratefully drank from the small metal container. The burn of whisky felt like it was heating him from the inside out as it ran down his throat.

The shepherd’s presence was even more imposing up close like this. While he was perhaps half a hand shorter than Jules himself, he was broadly built; muscled shoulders dwarfing his own in comparison. Equally strong-looking was the portion of his legs displayed between high leather boots and the rough edge of gathered plaid. Much hardier than the stringy, half-starved masses Jules had observed in nearby villages. He smelled like earth and hay and damp wool. Not normally what Jules would have considered an attractive combination, and yet it was strangely intoxicating. Or maybe that was just the whisky talking.

Staring down at the fabric wrapped around him, Jules couldn’t help admiring the beauty of Aodhàn’s tartan. It was so bright and vibrant compared to most of the others he’d seen since his arrival. _Funny how we both wear red, yet are on different sides._ Of course, the plaid did not have the same depth of pure red colour as his own uniform; it was a more orange hue, closer to a rust. _I wonder what kind of dye is used to make that shade..._

“Do the colours mean anything?” he asked, pointing at the fabric. Not the part wrapped around himself, of course, but the half of the garment still covering the other man’s thighs, which he brushed his fingers over. They were just as thickly muscled as his arms had been.

“Wh- wha’?” Aodhàn jumped a little, but didn’t shift away from him. “Th’ colours? Nae… well, only tha’ they look bonnie together.”

“That they do. Especially with the colour of your hair.”

The blush returned to the other man’s face, fiercer than before. It almost drowned out the ruddy-gold colour of the freckles over his nose, which Jules had also been appreciating.

“Uh, thank ye…” said Aodhàn, gaze meeting Jules’ own, then darting away for a moment before flicking back up again. His eyes were blue with a hint of grey around the iris, almost like the skies overhead during nicer weather.

“Well, now that we’re stuck here for a little while,” Jules began, crossing his legs _just so_ in order to swing his stocking foot near the Highlander’s closest knee, very nearly touching it, “How does one generally pass the time by the pasture? I mean, apart from buggering the sheep.”

“We dinnae fuck the sheep, ye daft bastard!” said Aodhàn, spluttering a little. The shock and offense on his face made Jules want to giggle.

_Who knew he’d seem even less threatening when I made him angry? This really isn’t a terrible way to spend an afternoon,_ he thought.

“I cannae speak fer th’ English farmers, though,” added the Highlander, a slyness to his voice as he baited Jules in turn. “Yer lot can be right barbaric.”

“Hah! Fine, stalemate. But you didn’t answer my question yet. This hut isn’t exactly outfitted with many diversions… As far as I can see, you’re the only interesting thing in it.”

“Ach, well, there’s plenty tae keep occupied wi’…” the other man said, looking away in apparent embarrassment. “Watchin’ tha flock, makin’ certain naebody else is tryin’ tae steal ‘em. Listening tae the birds. Haein’ a wee nap sometimes.”

“As fine as a nap sounds about now, I can think of something a little more entertaining we could do while we wait out the rain,” said Jules as he leaned over by the scantest inch and bumped their shoulders together gently.

Aodhàn’s face was so close to his now, eyes wide as he swallowed audibly over the pitter patter of rain and the low crackle of the fire before responding.

“An’ what would tha’ be?”

In answer, Jules tilted his body even more, so that not only were their shoulders touching, but his bare calf fell against the other man’s knees as it escaped the confines of the shabby blanket. The Highlander didn’t recoil at the sensation of skin on skin, though he did inhale sharply. Jules took it as further invitation, bringing a hand up to place it on Aodhàn’s chest.

Their eyes were locked on each other the entire time, until Jules leaned in close enough that focusing became difficult. He let his own flutter shut as he pushed his closed lips to ones slightly parted in surprise.

“O- oh! Ah see…”

Jules didn’t have time to become discouraged by the way Aodhàn had moved his head enough to be able to speak, as he immediately brought it back into alignment with Jules’ own and returned the kiss. Meeting the forward press of his head, Jules deepened what had begun as soft into something with a little more heat. He was finally starting to warm up.

Snaking his arm up from the Highlander’s chest and around his neck, Jules reeled him in closer and captured the resulting startled gasp with his mouth. As he continued lavishing attention on Aodhàn, he felt the man’s strong hands come to rest tentatively on his sides. They ran down to just skim the tops of his hips, then around to clutch at the small of his back.

“Mmmmnnn,” Jules hummed in pleasure, shifting again to throw one leg completely free of the blanket and over the shepherd’s legs. Settling into place on his lap, he used one hand to tilt the man’s head up, allowing him to dive tongue-first deeper into his mouth. From this position, he could certainly feel something stirring beneath the patterned fabric of the other man’s clothing. He brought his other hand up to wrap around broad shoulders for support, beginning to rock lightly.

“Ohhh, Julian…”

“You’re welcome to call me Jules,” he answered, smiling against Aodhàn’s lips.

“Heh, how quickly ye be changin’ yer tune.”

“Oh hush!” Jules emphasized his statement with a particularly forceful kiss.

_I should really reward him for following instructions so well_ , he thought, and leaned back to begin undoing the man’s jacket. Beneath the thick, quilted fabric it was even warmer. Tossing it aside, he pressed himself along Aodhàn’s front and ground down against him.

“Ahhhnnn!”

“Mmm, I take it you’re enjoying that?”

“Ahh, yes! Yes, yes, it’s sae good.”

“How about we try it from a different angle, then?” Jules asked, moving from where he was seated somewhat reluctantly and leaning back on their straw platform, motioning for the other man to follow him to a reclined position.

Aodhàn’s eyebrows rose almost comically, but he took the suggestion with enthusiasm. The way the thick wool still wrapped around his lower half tented at the front made Jules impatient. It took far too long for the shepherd to find a place between his thighs, strong arms coming up to rest on either side of him as their bodies met again.

_Oh yes,_ much _better._

Throwing his head back, Jules reveled in the additional stimulation provided by the way their pelvises now fit together. He bucked up against the other man’s hips, making them both gasp. Aodhàn began to cover the length of his neck with kisses, lips finding their way to the gap where the front of his shirt had come loose. A dextrous tongue played between the laces, dipping into the hollows above his collar bones, making Jules clutch at tousled curls.

They stayed like that, trading kisses and caresses for some time. The fire began to burn low while they rolled against each other with gradually increasing urgency, the light in the room dimming as the skies outside remained dark. Rain continued to batter the roof of the small hut, providing a counterpoint to their gasped breaths and soft moans.

“Sit up,” ordered Jules, a little more curt than he’d meant to say it.

Still, Aodhàn obliged, kneeling back on his haunches and giving Jules the access he wanted. The delight he felt after undoing the man’s belt and finding that the entire plaid just fell away would have been difficult to overstate. The Highlander was left in nothing but a shirt, which was only _just_ long enough to conceal his obvious arousal.

“So it’s true what they say.” Jules’ statement was rewarded with another burning blush.

He was even more delighted that the garment turned out to basically be a big blanket, which Aodhàn somehow still had the presence of mind to lay down over the cot and wrap around them. The straw had been starting to itch his bare legs and scratch at his back through the fine linen of his shirt, so Jules was thrilled to have a thicker wool between it and their bodies. Especially as they reclined alongside each other once again, pressing close together from chest to calves and losing themselves in countless kisses.

He was so nice and warm now. Almost too warm. Everything was heat and friction as they rutted up against each other, kissing and gasping, hands tangling in hair. Somehow they managed to shove his undergarments down and aside enough to let them rock right up against each other, skin to skin. Jules groaned at the feeling of the other man’s length pressing alongside his own.

They didn’t even bother trying to get rid of their respective shirts, merely letting their hands travel underneath the billowing fabric, tracing over each others’ bodies. Jules snuck one of his hands between them, grasping as much as he could of both of them and thrusting up into his grip, dragging Aodhàn along with him.

“Nnngghhh, sae good.”

They kept at it like that for a short while, the Highlander getting both his arms beneath Jules’ hips to lift him off the cot slightly and driving the motion more forcibly.

“Jules, ahhh, Ah’m nae gaein’ t’last much longer,” Aodhàn gritted out, lips moving against the crook of his neck.

“Nnnhhh, just like this… yesssss… just a little more.” Jules clutched at the other man’s shoulders and wound his legs around his hips. He was also starting to approach his climax.

It wasn’t long before he felt sticky heat bloom between them, covering his hand as Aodhàn groaned a long, guttural noise. The hands holding his hips dropped to either side, but the sated man continued to kiss him clumsily as he came down from the peak.

Jules took his hand from between their bodies to get as much friction as he could from the position, the shepherd’s weight solid and warm above him. After rutting up against the man’s hipbone a few more times, he let out a keening noise while cresting the final wave of his orgasm.

Falling boneless on the straw bed, he saw Aodhàn’s smiling face staring at him sleepily. He had shifted his weight mostly off of Jules so as not to crush him, but continued to embrace him. One strong leg was still twined between Jules’ own thighs, and he could feel fingers tracing slow circles on his chest.

“Time for that nap, then?”

He felt as much as heard Aodhàn’s low, musical laugh this time, and turned his head to meet the man’s lips in another kiss.

Returning to his camp could wait a little longer. He had more information to gather about the enemy, after all. Such as his endurance and recovery time. A careful study might even require several more visits with the Highlander.

_Finally, something worth coming all the way to Scotland for._

END

**Author's Note:**

> Scottish Gaelic translation:  
> Beannachd Dia duit, a duine = God’s blessing on you, sir (a common greeting in that time period)
> 
> I just can’t resist sending Jules sprawling into any small body of water in Scotland, especially if it means huddling for warmth. Please feel free to scream with me about this trope, Scottish AU, or just about anything else over on [my tumblr](https://goodyeartheshippycat.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Oh, and don’t @ me over the red in Aodhàn’s kilt. I’m aware that reds weren’t overly common prior to the romanticization of Highland culture by the Brits after they’d made it illegal and nearly driven it to extinction. If you want a great article on the subject, which also covers the mythos of the “clan tartan” (which was not a thing during the period this fic is set in) I recommend [this one](https://www.collectorsweekly.com/articles/debunking-the-myths-about-kilts/).


End file.
